


Jukebox Heroes

by sharkygal



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: 80's Music, Beverly Marsh: Unwitting Heartthrob, Bisexuality, Bonding, Canonical Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Coming of Age, Crushes, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Feelings And The Thirteen-Year-Olds Ill-Equipped To Handle Them, Friendship, Long Live Feedback Comment Project, M/M, Missing Scenes, Multi, Snapshots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-14
Updated: 2018-03-23
Packaged: 2019-01-16 20:34:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12350202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharkygal/pseuds/sharkygal
Summary: Summer and the spaces in between (the Losers Club, June - September 1989)





	1. Venus

_goddess on the mountain top  
burning like a silver flame_

Even while it's happening, sometimes you recognize A Moment. 

There's them, right, and then there's Beverly Marsh, who whips her dress off and rockets past them like a shooting star. Beverly Marsh who leaps off the cliff with zero hesitation while they stand around like dipshits in their tighty-whities, and leaves them all in the dust. "What the fuck!" he yells. Because what the fuck. 

Puberty doesn't start with Bev (well, maybe it does for Eddie), but goddamn, if she doesn't pour some gasoline on that fire. 

That is A Moment, folks. Right there. 

They jump in after her, of course, because otherwise they'd be too pussy to live. They splash around and goof off like always, but it's not just like always. It's different. 

It's after her. 

Not that he turns into some lame-o mushy dickhead now, unlike _other_ people he could mention. Just because she has tits and probably smells nice doesn't mean he has to fawn all over her like she's the second-coming of Jesus Christ wrapped up in a Molly Ringwald burrito, like their very own walking, talking Pretty In Pink come to wash away their fucking sins. 

Look, it's not like he isn't aware she's a girl. He's aware. Trust him, he's super aware. He's just not a total drooling dweeb about it like the new kid or Bill. 

Thing is, even though it's weird as hell having her around, actually hanging out with her doesn't feel that weird. Like, talking to her and dicking around and stuff. Bev's pretty okay for a girl, just like Bill and Stan and Eddie are pretty okay for scrawny little geekazoids and Ben's pretty okay for a short fat geekazoid. 

Just like Richie's pretty okay for a four-eyed trashmouth geekazoid. 

Jesus, compared to them, she's practically cool. Who gives a shit if she's a girl? 

Ben and his goo-goo puppy dog eyes give a shit, that's who. Bill gives a shit. If you believe the rumors, a lot of guys at school have given a shit. 

When they get bored with swimming, everybody wades over to the bank to climb out. Halfway there, he slips on algae, and Bev catching his arm is the only thing that keeps him from the world's shortest, dumbest belly flop. "You all right?" she asks. 

Only hip deep now, and even without his glasses, he can sort of maybe see the shadow of her nipples through her wet training bra. He stares at the blurry water beaded on her neck and eyelashes instead because he's not a creep, even if he talks like one. "Uh, yeah," he says. "Thanks." 

Maybe he kind of gives a shit, too. 

Stan digs his boombox out from its hiding place under his clothes, tunes it to the only station that comes in around Derry that isn't bullshit grandpa music or drunk bible-thumping hillbillies. Beverly spreads a towel on the rocks and stretches out to dry off while Bon Jovi sings about laying your hands on him, and all of them just gawk at her like assholes, because maybe they all kind of give a shit. 

Puberty, man. What a bitch. 

Later, after they go to Ben's to look at his creepy Xeroxed murder walls, there's the inevitable point of separation when it's close to curfew and time to head home. It's obvious Ben wants to follow after Beverly, even though they're already at his damn house. Bill wants it, too, Richie can tell -- he's blind, but he's not _that_ blind -- but Bill ends up riding off the other direction with Stan like usual, one street and two houses away from each other since first grade. 

It's him and Eddie that get the honor, because Bev lives in the same crappy part of Derry they do. 

They wheel their bikes together, and debate seeing _Batman_ or _Honey, I Shrunk The Kids_ on Saturday and whether or not Eddie is a wuss with lousy taste in movies (the answer is yes). Beverly doesn't say much, but so what else is new? "You got any big plans this weekend?" Richie asks her. 

"Not really," she says. 

Eddie's bugging his eyes out at him behind her, and he doesn't know if it's because he wants him to invite her or because he's terrified he'll invite her or all of the above. Pretty tempting idea, if for no other reason than to screw with Eddie (and because Richie's just a lovable asshole like that), but they're already at Turner street, Eddie's favorite shortcut, and before you know it, the moment's passed by. 

"So, um, see you around, I guess," Eddie fidgets with his watch, darting nervous glances everywhere but at Bev. 

Smooth. "Later, Eds," Richie says. "I'd say give your mom my love, but incest's illegal in Maine. Don't worry, I'll stop by tonight and do it myself." 

Eddie's lip curls in revulsion. "You are genuinely disgusting. You know that, don't you? Right? That you're disgusting?" 

"Yeah, it's your mom's favorite thing about me, next to my giant dong." 

Beverly's just shaking her head, the kind of exasperated that's almost laughing. "Bye, Eddie," she says. 

The tips of his ears turn red, the little nerd. Pitiful. "Bye," he mumbles, and takes off in that stiff-legged I'm-not-running-you're-running way of his, stupid fanny packs rattling. 

Like he said: pitiful. 

Just the two of them left after that, walking in silence, which is about what he expected. Bev is usually pretty quiet, and to be honest, most girls seem about as interested in talking to him as they are in catching the clap. 

"You live in that yellow house on Birch, right?" she pipes up out of nowhere, and it surprises him so much, he just blinks at her like a moron. "The one on the corner?" 

His brain finally kicks into gear. "Uh, yeah, that's right. Hey, wait, how do you know that?" 

She shoots him a weird look. "Because I see you there all the time?" she says, like he really is a moron. 

He shoves his glasses up his nose. "Whoa, whoa, are you stalking me? Do you, like, follow me home, and look in my windows and shit?" the idea has a certain appeal. "You know, if you want to see the goods that bad, all you gotta do is ask." 

Beverly looks him up and down, raises one eyebrow, and his face gets hot. "I saw plenty of the goods today, thanks," she says, and rolls her eyes. "It's on my way to school, Sherlock. You seriously never noticed that I ride past your house like everyday?" 

He didn't _not_ notice. It just didn't, you know, fully register, and anyway, mornings are not what you'd call his peak operating hours. He has a lot on his mind, okay. "Sorry, you must have blended in with all my other stalkers." 

"Right," she drawls, wry as fuck. "There's just...so many." 

"More and more every day," he cracks, and she snorts, that almost laugh again. He slides a look at her from the side of his Coke bottles. "You live in one of those old apartments over by the video place and the laundromat," her eyes pop wide, shocked, and he smirks. "Yeah, that's right, I know shit, too. I've seen you out smoking on the fire escape." 

She maneuvers her bike around a pothole. "So why didn't you ever say hi?" 

His face feels even hotter. Probably got sunburned today or something. "I don't know," he says. "Why didn't you?" 

"I don't know," she shrugs one freckled shoulder. Her hair's short enough now, he can see she has freckles on the back of her neck, too. She glances over and catches him staring at her, and smiles, a little crooked. "I guess maybe I will now." 

Richie swallows. "Yeah, um, all right." 

They're standing in front of his house, yard full of weeds and cracks in the driveway, peeling harvest gold paint from before either of them were born. For a second, he thinks maybe he should just walk the last stretch with her -- her building is only like four streets up -- but then he remembers he's not a complete dork. 

"Well," he finally says. "See you later." 

"See you," Beverly echoes, and when she walks by, he gets hit by a wave of cherry cola lip gloss, something sweet and spicy that's either perfume or one fancy fucking laundry detergent. 

Shit. She really does smell good. 

Richie stares after her, dazed, before he snaps out of it, shakes his head. "Hey, I'll leave my blinds open tonight, in case you want a front row seat!" he yells. 

She laughs for real this time, and flips him off over her shoulder. 

Yeah, Bev's cool, all right. 

He watches her disappearing figure 'til he starts to feel like a creep again, then finally heads inside. No beater Pinto in the driveway means no Denise. Probably out with her stupid friends or whatever reject she's screwing this week. She's eighteen, so the curfew doesn't apply, not that she'd give a rat's ass if it did. 

Mom's home on the couch with Kenny, a few beers deep and watching Jeopardy. Exhibit A of where his sister gets her shitty taste in men. "Hey, Buddy Holly, you and your little boyfriends have fun braiding each other's hair?" Kenny says, and laughs, because Buzzed Kenny is an even bigger asshole than Sober Kenny and twice as unfunny (if that's actually possible). 

"Why, looking for somebody to do your nose hair?" Richie snaps. 

"Come on, you two, don't start," Mom pleads, only a little slurred, but hey, it's early. Her eyes are big and brown and unfocused when she looks at him. "Hi, baby. There's Salisbury steak on the stove." 

Dry-ass gristly mystery meat with slimy onions and canned gravy? No thanks. Richie grabs a cold hot dog wrapped in Wonder Bread and a bag of Chips Ahoy, and locks himself in his room before they crack into the next six-pack and the fun really starts. 

He stuffs his face while he rereads old Swamp Thing comics and listens to a cassette of _Moving Pictures_ he dubbed from the record. When that gets boring, he jacks off, because hello, he's thirteen. Jacking off is basically a full-time job. 

He doesn't think about Beverly in her bra and blue panties, her legs or her tits or her ass, because it'd feel weird and gross. Like she'd know he did it. 

It's later on, when he's drifting to sleep, that he thinks about Bev, but not like that, not like it sounds. Richie thinks about Bev on the cliff, about her flying fearless out into nothing and the sun in her wild red hair. 

And Bill and Ben might be (are totally) drooling dweebs, but they aren't all wrong. That Sixteen Candles shit looks good on her.


	2. Mirror In The Bathroom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beverly has a very long, strange night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Dissociation, implied child abuse, threats of violence and / or sexual violence, and just...Patrick Hockstetter.

_mirror in the bathroom, please talk free  
the door is locked  
just you and me_

The sound of her own trembling breath in her ears. That's real. She puts her hand on her chest to feel her heartbeat, quick rabbit pulse thud thud thud, and that's real, too. 

The tile floor under her is real, and the wall at her back. The light, the mirror, the bottles on the shelf Daddy put up, aftershave, her nail polish remover, Mom's old cold cream, all of this is real. 

There's real, and then there's the blood. The slip and slick and salt taste of it, stinging her eyes, slow drip, and it feels just as real. It all feels real. 

But her dad didn't see anything. If it was real, he would have. How couldn't he? 

There are only two options here. The one that makes sense is she's losing it. And the other... 

The other... 

Beverly tries to stand up, but it's too slippery. She crawls on hands and knees through the -- the -- she crawls and sits in the bathroom doorway, unties her boots with shaky hands and peels off her wet socks. She can't let herself cry. 

She walks down the hall gingerly as an old woman, off-balance, so careful not to touch anything. Daddy's in the kitchen, pouring coffee into his thermos. "Bevvie, get my lunch, would you?" he says, and it's not a request. Nothing ever is. 

Beverly dutifully makes him two sandwiches the way he likes, one ham and one pimento loaf. She scrubs her hands first, as long as she dares to, but blood still gets smeared on the sink and the refrigerator door, the jar of mayonnaise and the knife she uses to spread it. She has to swallow over and over to keep from gagging. 

There's a perfect bright red fingerprint in the middle of one bread slice. She swallows harder, shoves the sandwiches into plastic bags and then into his lunch box as fast as she can. 

Daddy runs his fingers through her hair, catching in the congealing mess. It pulls hard enough to make her wince. "Don't forget, I'll be home late now," she nods, even though she'd forgotten about his new shift starting, and he kisses her forehead. She squeezes her eyes shut. "You be good." 

His mouth comes away red. Jesus, she's going to be sick. 

When he leaves, Beverly listens for his key in the lock, heavy footsteps to trail away and disappear, then covers her face with her hands and allows herself to shake. 

She's crazy. God, she's crazy. 

(or she isn't, oh god, oh god, she isn't and that's worse) 

"Stop it," Beverly says out loud, and digs her fingers into her skin. " _Stop it_. Get a grip." 

She forces herself to breathe deeply, evenly, until she goes still and blank inside, sinks into that black nothing place she goes when things get bad ( _you're still my girl_ ). In this place, thoughts slide away like water on glass. Like this, nothing matters except the concrete, the immediate. 

If this is real, she needs to clean up. And if it isn't...she needs to know that, too. 

Two birds, one stone. Beverly goes to her room to find clean clothes, puts them in a plastic grocery bag. She doesn't look in the bathroom. She doesn't think about it. 

Autopilot takes her on a familiar path outside, downstairs and two doors to the left. She knocks on the third. 

Her heart is pounding in her ears. "Bev!" her neighbor, Nancy Peterson, answers the door with a friendly, if baffled smile, bleached blonde perm in a ponytail and over-sized KISS t-shirt falling off one shoulder. "What can I do for you?" 

No screaming. No reaction. Obviously she doesn't see the blood either. 

So that's that. She really is going crazy. 

Beverly smiles back, hollow inside, and ignores the feel of dried blood cracking on her cheeks. "Hi, Nancy. Sorry to bother you, but could I maybe use your shower? Our hot water's out again," the lie comes easily. It's happened for real twice already this year. 

"Yeah, of course, kiddo. Come in, come in," Nancy moves out of the way to let Beverly slip inside, then shuts the door, shaking her head in disgust. "This whole damn building is falling down around our ears, I tell you. It's outrageous." 

Nancy heads toward the bathroom, and Bev drifts along behind. Nancy's six-year-old daughter, Cindy, is at the kitchen table with a pile of crayons and a My Little Pony coloring book, concentrating too hard to look up. She babysits for her sometimes when Nancy has to stay late or cover a swing shift at the intake desk for the emergency room. She works at the hospital just like Daddy. 

Nancy has a soft, faded pink-striped towel waiting for her. There's no blood in their bathroom. She hadn't known she was afraid there would be. "Love the new 'do, by the way," Nancy says on her way out, and ruffles her sticky hair. Beverly tries not to shudder. "Tres chic!" 

Bev strips off her filthy clothes in a hurry, stuffs them inside the empty plastic bag she'd brought her clean things in. She ties the handles to seal it, because even if she knows the blood is just all in her head, it's...better. 

She shampoos her hair three times, mechanically scrubs every nook and cranny with pink Avon soap that smells like roses until her skin is flushed almost as pink. She lets the spray beat against her face, lukewarm water running to cold now, and honestly has no idea if she's crying or not. 

Nancy's at the stove when she comes out. It smells like Manwich tomato sauce. "Better now?" 

"Yeah," Beverly says. "Thank you." 

It makes her feel guilty, how nice Nancy is to her. There aren't a lot of people in Derry who are nice to her anymore. "No sweat, kiddo," Nancy shuts off the burner. "Hey, I heard your dad's stuck pulling twelves. They still haven't found anybody?" 

She nods. Night shift had been decimated when two guys took off (disappeared, some people said) and Wayne Ripsom...well. After Betty, he wasn't in any kind of shape to work. Until replacements were hired, everybody left in maintenance had to work twelve-hour shifts to cover. 

"That's rough. Beaucoup overtime at least," she can feel Nancy's eyes on her, and doesn't dare look over. If she does, everything is just gonna come spilling out, she knows it. "You wanna stay for dinner, kiddo? It's sloppy joe night," Bev hesitates, grip tightening on the plastic bag with her dirty clothes. She can see the bloody shadow inside. What else is she gonna start seeing? "I just got a new batch of samples in, too. We can have a little makeover party. Come on, what do you say?" 

Nancy sells Avon as a side gig. She gives Beverly a lot of free stuff -- 'samples', she says, or things that people returned, and some of them probably are, but Bev is pretty sure more of them are things Nancy buys her. Maybe she feels sorry for her because she doesn't have a mom, or maybe she's lonely and likes having somebody to talk to (being an unmarried single mom in Derry isn't a lot easier than being the school slut). Whatever the reason, it's...it's really nice. 

Beverly swallows the lump in her throat. "Okay," she agrees. Not like there's anything but a silent empty apartment waiting for her (and the blood, all that blood that isn't really there, the _voices_ ). 

So she ends up sitting at their dinner table, even though she's never felt less hungry in her life. She struggles to force down a few polite bites while Nancy asks her how she's doing, what her summer plans are, and Cindy chatters about the Gomez kids' new kitten down in 1A. 

Cindy breaks into sudden giggles. "You got sauce in your ear, sillyhead!" 

Beverly touches her ear, then looks at her fingers. Not sauce. Blood. She freezes, pulse thumping all through her body like a drum, and slowly holds up her hand. "Is that it?" her voice sounds warped to her own hearing, half-speed and far away and so, so calm. 

"Duh," Cindy rolls her eyes. 

Cindy sees it. Cindy can see the blood, too, and that means -- 

That means maybe she isn't imagining it. Maybe she isn't crazy at all. 

It's not as comforting as you might think. 

Beverly eats without tasting anything, talks without any idea of what she's saying, while her brain whirs and whirs. After dinner, Nancy brings out her little turquoise case of sample lipsticks, all tiny perfect chisels of color with names like Amorous Rose and Apricot Breeze. Nancy gives her a 'returned' jar of Peach Soft Musk lotion to match the perfume she gave her for her birthday in April. It's her favorite, sweet peach and something fresh and spicy green like bell pepper or grass, but it might as well smell like sweat socks right now for all she can appreciate it. Her mind is very much somewhere else. 

(if it's real, why can't Daddy or Nancy see anything? Where did it come from? What _is_ it?) 

Dread builds the later it gets and the closer she gets to having to leave. By 11:00, Cindy's fast asleep on the couch, and Nancy's yawning. She has work early tomorrow, Bev knows, and feels guilty again. "I should probably go," Beverly mumbles, and in a way it'll be a relief not to have to keep pretending everything is normal. 

But the thought of being alone right now is terrifying. 

"Use our shower anytime you need, honey," Nancy tells her at the door. "And if it gets a little too creepy by yourself at night, or you ever, you know, you want to talk about anything, whatever it is, you can always come over here, you hear me? _Always_ ," there's something about the way Nancy emphasizes that, the way she's looking at her, which makes Beverly feel like she can see inside her. "I mean it. If it's late, just call and I'll let you in, okay? You can crash on the couch whenever you want." 

Daddy would kill her if he heard she'd stayed over at Nancy's -- he thinks she's a slut and a busybody, which is worse -- but it's good to have the option. 

Beverly trudges up the metal and cement stairway slowly, warily, moonlight playing all kinds of weird tricks on her eyes. She doesn't exactly want to go back home, but she doesn't want to hang around outside either, not with all those kids going missing...and worse. 

When she gets to their door, she puts her ear to it first, holds her breath while she listens. Nothing. 

Moment of truth now. Beverly bites her lip, cautiously swings the door open. 

Inside is quiet except for Daddy's metal fan in the living room. The few lights she'd left on just make the apartment seem dimmer, the shadows darker. 

She shuts the door and bolts it behind her, and everything suddenly feels very final. This is it; Daddy won't be back 'til after 8:00. Nine hours of being stuck here by herself gape in front of her like a deep black pit, and god, she hasn't wanted her dad since she was little, before Mom died, but she does now. 

The phone rings, and she startles, claps a hand over her mouth to stifle a yelp. 

The only people who'd be calling this late are Daddy or Nancy. _Unless it's a trap_. Images of blood dribbling from the phone's mouthpiece flicker in her mind, the cord changing into ropes of hair and winding around her again, dragging her toward whatever was -- 

The phone's still ringing. Beverly swallows, mouth dry as salt, and creeps into the living room. Both her hand and voice are shaking when she answers. "Hello?" 

Nothing but the sound of someone (something) breathing on the line, then a raspy voice: "Are you alone?" 

Fuck. Oh god. "Who is this?" her heart is beating so hard, her skull is throbbing. 

"How many dicks did you suck today?" hissing now, laughing, and blood rushes to her face. "Got room for a couple more?" more laughter, boys laughing, and a rustling sound she realizes is the phone being passed. 

Then there's a loud, long belch, and just like that, she knows exactly who and what this is. She clenches a fist. "Why don't you assholes keep blowing each other instead," she snaps, and hangs up. 

Of course. That psycho shithead, Henry Bowers, and his psycho shithead friends have been crank-calling her whenever they get bored all year, and now that it's summer, they have plenty of time on their hands. Like it wasn't already bad enough what they say about her. 

What the hell did she ever do to them? What did she ever do to anyone in this goddamn town? 

She's so sick of this bullshit. 

Rage is hotter, stronger than fear, and Beverly uses that, storms around turning on every light in the living room and the kitchen, stalks down the hall to slam the bathroom door shut. On impulse, she grabs the poem from on top of the laundry hamper where she left it. 

She cleans it the best she can, wiping blood off with a damp paper towel. It's stained, and the ink is pretty smudged, but you can still make out what it says. _My heart burns there, too_. Something warm and tender unfolds in her chest, softens the angry fist of her heart. 

The phone rings again. 

Jesus, get a life! She wouldn't answer at all, except it still might be Daddy checking on her (checking that she's where she's supposed to be). She finishes hiding the postcard in an old threadbare pair of panties at the back of her underwear drawer, then heads out to pick up the phone, tries not to sound as pissed off as she feels. "Hello?" 

"Hey, Red," the voice says, and it's not Henry. Only one person calls her that. 

Her skin crawls. Patrick Hockstetter is the weirdest, creepiest... _emptiest_ person she's ever met. Girls like Gretta talk shit and hassle her, maybe more when they can get away with it, and guys like Henry grope her and snap her bra in the hallways, tell everyone she did them, but Patrick -- 

Patrick scares the shit out of her. 

_Hey, Red,_ he'd say when she had no choice but to pass by him at school, and brush his spidery fingertips over the back of her neck. _What's the big hurry_? 

Three weeks ago, he'd followed her into the girls room, backed her into the sinks before she could run or grab something to fight him with or even scream. He'd trapped her there with his long, lanky body, and flicked his lighter on, held it an inch away from her face. The reflected flame had been the only light in his pale dead eyes. "I got something to show you, Red," he'd grinned, and she didn't know if he wanted to rape her or burn her alive or something even worse. 

If third period hadn't ended and sent a wave of girls flooding in, she doesn't know what would have happened. She never wants to find out. 

"Wanna know a secret?" Patrick croons, and she breaks into a cold sweat. 

It's like she's back in that girls room, frozen with terror, staring up at his rictus grin and the terrible void of his eyes. 

"Come to the bathroom, and I'll show you," Patrick sing-songs, and he sounds...strange, like a tape that keeps slowing down and speeding up. "I'll show you how." 

The hair stands up on her neck. _She doesn't understand_. "How to what?" she hears herself ask as if in a dream, a nightmare that's pulling her in where she doesn't want to go but she can't stop. 

"How to float," Patrick whispers, then he's laughing and laughing and laughing, spiraling wildly into hysteria. 

He's still laughing when she slams the phone down. 

Jelly-legged, Beverly grabs the aluminum bat Daddy keeps by the door in case one of their junkie neighbors tries to break in, then sits on the couch, ramrod straight. Patrick's crazy laugh keeps echoing in her head, so she turns on the TV to drown it out, switches from some kids show to late night reruns of _Magnum PI_. 

Whatever is going on, she won't ever be caught out that way again. Too scared to fight back, to even move. 

Bev waits for something else to happen -- more voices, a knock on the door -- but nothing does, and somewhere in the long delirious hours, unbelievably, she actually dozes off, sitting upright and still clutching the bat. 

The phone rings for a third time, and she jerks awake, heart pounding. Daylight is seeping through the blinds, and she glances at the clock. It's just after 8:00. "H...Hello?" she answers. 

"Hi, baby," Daddy's voice, and she grips the bat tighter. 

"Daddy?" she doesn't know why she asks that. It's his voice. Who else would it be? 

"Were you expecting somebody else?" like he can hear her thoughts, suspicion darkening his tone. "Is that why you're up?" 

Shit. "No, Daddy, of course not," she answers quickly, rubs grit from her tired, burning eyes. "I fell asleep on the couch, that's all." 

"Mm," he doesn't believe her, she knows. He never believes her. "Listen, Bevvie, I can't talk long. There's a problem here, something with the sewer lines, and I won't be able to leave until it gets fixed." 

Horror churns in her gut. "How long is that gonna be?" 

"Hard to say. A few hours, maybe longer." 

"Oh," she chokes. The desperate, insane urge to blurt out everything to him hits her, overwhelming, almost uncontrollable, and she has to bite her lip hard enough to bruise to keep from doing just that. 

"I'll be home as soon as I can," Daddy says, softened now. He must hear how upset she is, and thinks it's because she misses him. Beverly bites into her lip harder, bites down on some brittle manic yelping sound like a laugh. 

Jesus Christ, she's really cracking up. 

After they say their goodbyes and she promises to be good, yes of course Daddy, Bev just...sits. There's a scream stuck in her throat, a feeling like she's ready to crawl out of her skin, tear out her hair, or cry. 

She stares sightless at _Sunday Morning_ with Charles Kuralt on the TV, and has never felt more totally, hopelessly, crushingly alone than she does right now. 

In this moment, she wants more than anything to tell someone -- anyone -- what's happening, but there's nobody. She has nobody. There's no one who can help her. Who could she go to? Nancy, who hadn't seen a damn thing? A fucking six-year-old girl? Who would listen to a word of this crazy shit? 

Sudden as a lightning bolt, missing posters on a wall flash through her brain, cheap library copies of historical documents, newspaper articles. 

She exhales, sharp, open-mouthed. 

It's a stupid idea. The dumbest. Insane. She barely knows any of them, and they'll think she's nuts. _She_ thinks she's nuts. 

Beverly drops the bat with a thud, stands up to look for a phone book. 

What other choice does she have?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wondered where the hell Bev got cleaned up before the Losers got there, if her bathroom was still a total bloodfest.


	3. Under Pressure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan's life is getting complicated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had to do a little 'oops' timeline adjustment, as I accidentally would have set this part on Shabbat, which...would not really work.

_it's the terror of knowing_  
_what this world is about  
watching some good friend screaming  
let me out_

One day everything's normal, and the next Stan is living in a world where his phone rings while he's eating breakfast and enduring his morning Torah interrogation (are you taking your studies seriously now? Are you practicing? Come to my office tomorrow, I want to hear you recite again).

"Hello?" his mom answers. She looks at him, sly glittery-eyed, and he and his father look at each other. "Yes, he's here. Just a moment," he's dumbfounded when she offers the phone to him. "It's for you, Stanley," she lowers her voice. "It's a _girl_."

A girl? What girl? There are exactly four people in the world who call him, and they're Bill, Eddie, Richie, and his bubbe back in New York. He takes the phone receiver with numb fingers. "Hello?"

The voice on the other end is soft, hesitant. "Hi, Stan. It's, um, Beverly," then she adds in a hurry. "Beverly Marsh."

As if there are so many Beverlys calling him everyday, she has to specify. As if he wouldn't recognize her.

He remembers staring at her body yesterday, the foreign shock of lust that had paralyzed him. His cheeks burn. "Oh," he says. "Uh, hi."

"Sorry, I know it's early, and I know this is out of nowhere. I just..." she pauses for so long, he thinks maybe she won't continue at all, and he doesn't have any idea what he's supposed to say. His palms are so sweaty, the phone's slipping. "I didn't know who else to call."

Bill, he wants to say. Why didn't you call Bill?

Except the Denbroughs aren't in the phone book anymore. They changed their number and had it unlisted after Georgie went missing, after the freaks and fakes kept calling day and night. Who else would she call? Eddie? _Richie_?

Behind him, his parents are arguing in whispers. "Who is this girl? You didn't ask her name?" his father, of course. The interrogator.

"Don, he's a good boy. He has a right to a little privacy."

"Who said anything about privacy? I just want to know who's calling my son at eight o'clock in the morning. Is that so much?"

Stan climbs out of his chair as quietly as he can, slips from the kitchen around the corner into the hallway, as far as the phone cord will stretch. "What's going on?"

"I don't know how to explain. It's -- It's bad," he hears her swallow. "It's really bad."

The hair on the back of his neck stands up. "What's wrong?" he asks. "Are you okay?"

"I don't know," she says, and his stomach is climbing up his throat. "Can you and the others come over here? Please?"

He's afraid. Something terrible has happened, and he doesn't want any part of it. He wants to tell her that it's none of his concern. "All right," tumbles out of his mouth instead. Because Beverly is afraid, too, and maybe in trouble, and he wants to help because he's an idiot. "I have to go to morning service first, but we'll come after. Where do you live?"

"The brick apartments on Lower Main," she says in a relieved, trembling rush. He knows where that is -- it's only a few blocks south of the synagogue. "Thank you, Stan."

"Yeah, of course," because he's the king idiot of idiots, and this is an awful idea, really. What are they walking into here? Every bad scenario from every school safety talk and first aid class with the Boy Scouts runs through his head on a loop. "Which apartment is yours?"

"I'll wait out on the fire escape for you guys," she says, and her voice is small. "Please hurry."

"We will," he says, then blurts out: "It's going to be okay."

It's stupid to say that. He doesn't even know what's going on. How would he possibly know if it'll be okay? Maybe they were robbed. Maybe someone died. Beverly could be hurt. Her dad could have hurt her (and he isn't sure why he thinks that, not exactly, but it's a thought that sticks, insidious as a burr).

When he creeps back into the kitchen, his mother is viciously scrubbing plates in the dairy dish tub, and his father is waiting. He feels eyes on him like a laser while he hangs up, carefully untangling the phone cord. He hates the way it always winds into knots.

"Who was that?" his father asks.

"A girl from school," he says, because he's an honest person and more importantly a terrible liar. "She, um, found my kippah, I guess," he adds, because he's a terrible liar but he's not stupid enough to tell his parents anything close to the truth about that. They'd call 911. He should call 911.

He calls Bill instead.

This is how he ends up sneaking into a girl's apartment and cleaning up blood for an hour.

Because this is apparently the world he lives in now.

In case anybody wants to know, it's a shitty world.

He's washing his hands in the kitchen sink for the twenty-third time, while Bill and Ben take the last trash bags out to the dumpsters and Eddie stands outside huffing fresh air and probably arguing with Richie. "Hey," Beverly says, suddenly next to him, and he startles.

Stan darts a look at her. Her shirt is very white, recently bleached. He doesn't know how she looks so clean right now. "Hey," he says.

"I just wanted to thank you again," she tucks her hair behind her ear like she still thinks there's more hair to tuck than there is. "For coming over."

His face is on fire. Sweat is breaking out on his forehead, the small of his back, and if not for the Ban deodorant he applies every night and morning, his armpits would probably be swamps by now. It feels like his mouth is the only dry part of his body. "Sure," his voice cracks. "No problem."

"You didn't have to," she says, and it makes him pause. "I wouldn't have blamed you if you hadn't," that soft, soft voice like on the phone, like a magnet, and he can't keep his gaze from getting pulled over to her again. "But I'm really grateful you did."

Her cheeks are watermelon Jolly Rancher pink under her freckles. She's blushing, he realizes, and it makes him feel both less stupid and incredibly exposed all at the same time. "You sounded so scared," the words fall out right on top of each other, like he's confessing to something. She looks at him, big pale eyes in the dark kitchen, and he licks his dry, dry lips with his dry tongue. "Nobody should have to be alone when they're scared like that."

The kitchen seems like the size of a matchbox around them right now. Beverly's standing close enough he can see all the fine copper hairs that make up her eyebrows, the map of tiny blue veins across her eyelids. Her lips are parted gently, and he's trying not to stare at her mouth, her snow white shirt and elegant collarbones, trying not to wonder if she's wearing the bra from yesterday, loose strap sliding down her shoulder and she'd pushed it back into place carelessly, like she didn't even notice but he couldn't not. How could anyone not?

His heartbeat feels like it's going to shake his whole body apart.

She smiles and ducks her head, finally breaks eye contact, and he blinks, dizzy like he'd been holding his breath underwater. "We should, um, probably go," she says. "In case my dad..you know."

Oh god, he'd actually forgotten her dad. Her dad who could come home at literally any second and catch him in here, and they've been just standing around staring at each other like dummies for who knows how long, and _her dad could come home anytime_ , what the hell are they doing? "Yes, let's go now," Stan says quickly, and doesn't exactly run for the window by the fire escape but he doesn't exactly not run either.

From there, everything descends into total chaos and mayhem.

Georgie, clowns...it seems insanity is more contagious than the flu, and they've all been infected, him included. He saw the blood, he saw that _woman_ , and none of this can in any way be happening in real life. It has to be some type of mass delusion, like maybe the Derry water supply has been contaminated with lead or LSD, or there's ergot getting baked into their bread loaves.

They see Mike Hanlon's bike, signs of what is unmistakably Henry Bowers and his gang, and not only do they not run away, they actually run _towards_ them. Because they have all lost their minds somewhere between the last school bell ringing and this moment.

Stan puts his kickstand down, finds himself charging hot on Beverly's heels to the rescue like they're the goddamn Justice League and not a bunch of five-foot-nothing thirteen-year-old nerds, and he has to wonder at what point he completely lost control of this situation.

He helps Mike up the hill afterward, numb with disbelief. He got in a rock fight. He hit Henry Bowers in his disgusting mouth with a rock. He shoplifted from a pharmacy, and jumped off the quarry cliff, and lied to his parents, and went into a girl's apartment whose father would have murdered him on the spot, and now he's committed intentional physical violence for the first time ever.

Reckless. He's never been so reckless before in his life. He doesn't know what the hell is wrong with him -- it's like an alien has taken over his body.

At this rate, he's going to be dead or in jail by July.

"Are you okay?" Stan asks.

Mike nods, shaky. "Yeah," he says, and looks at him, at all of them, with something close enough to wonder, Stan's stomach flips over.

"Come on," Bill smiles. "We'll go wi-with you into town."

They escort Mike to the butcher's shop like the wimpiest, least intimidating bodyguard squad ever, but it works out, he guesses. Henry and his goons don't show up again, anyway, and god, he's so grateful Patrick Hockstetter wasn't with them today. He's pretty sure rocks wouldn't have been enough to scare him away. He's pretty sure nothing short of Butch Bowers, the threat of getting expelled, or a grenade launcher would be enough to scare Patrick away when he has a target in sight (and it seems like his eye always lands on Stan, like he can't fucking wait to single him out for some special humiliation).

Afterward, they all just kind of stand around out front, Richie using his dumb Phil Donahue Voice to ask Mike a bunch of equally dumb nosy questions while Eddie tells Ben about last night's rerun of _Hunter_ he sneaked out to watch after his mom took her sleeping pill, and there's no reason at all Stan shouldn't just leave. There are actually very good reasons that he should, like that he needs to go study because his dad will ground him if his reading of the haftarah hasn't improved.

"You guys wanna go to my house?" he blurts out instead. "We set up the trampoline yesterday."

It was his tenth birthday present from his bubbe, and has become a summer tradition. Mom hated it from the second he opened it, believes without a doubt one day they're all going to break their necks, but this year, she dragged it out of the garage the second Shabbat was over and set it up by herself in the twilight gloom without a complaint. Anything that keeps them close to the house is fine with her right now, he guesses.

"Oh hell yeah!" Richie drops the Phil Donahue Voice in an instant. "Wait 'til you check out my back flip! I added this like crane kick thing, so it's even more awesome now."

If 'awesome' means 'nonexistent and broke his glasses the last time he tried', then sure. "Yeah, no," Stan turns to Ben, Bev, and Mike. "How about you?"

His voice cracks again and the back of his neck feels like it might spontaneously combust, but he wants them to know they're invited. It's...important to be specific. "I'd love to," Ben says, so fast he blushes. "I mean, I've never been on a trampoline before, but...yeah."

Mike looks surprised to be included. "Um, sure. That sounds really cool."

"Why not," Beverly says, and smiles, slow, lopsided. _Pirate smile_ , the Elton John lyric pops into his head, and he doesn't even know what that means exactly, but some fevered part of him thinks it's this, it has to be this right here. "How could I pass up the chance to witness such an awesome back flip?"

"Is that doubt I hear? Are you doubting my skills?" Richie puts a hand to his chest, wounded. "I am like a goddamn ninja turtle."

"The s-same height, maybe," Bill grins.

"And you smell like you live in a sewer," Eddie throws in.

"Oh sorry, I didn't have time for a shower after your mom got done riding my bologna pony," Richie holds his hand out for a high five. "Hey-o!"

Stan just turns and walks away. Sometimes it's the only possible response.

They're mid-discussion about their loathed PE teacher and Bill and Richie's Little League coach, Mr. Koechner (Cock-Knocker, Richie calls him), and his giant walrus mustache that flaps around whenever he yells (which is all the time), when they walk through Stan's front door. "Mom, I'm home!" he calls. "I'll be out back with the guys."

He tries to sneak everyone through unnoticed, but no such luck -- Mom's working at her desk in the living room. She looks up from a stack of quarterly tax filings, and her eyes go wide when she sees the size of their group. They widen further when she spots Beverly. "Well, well, I see some new faces," and there's that sly glittery look again which makes his insides squirm. "I think introductions are in order, Stanley?"

Stan sighs. "Mom, this is Ben, Mike, and Beverly," he can feel the blood climbing up his neck to his face, and wills at his mother: _please, please don't be weird and embarrassing_. "Guys, this is my mom."

"Thank you, Stanley. It's very nice to meet you all," Mom smiles at them, lingering on Beverly, then takes off her reading glasses, lets them dangle from their chain around her thin neck. "Are you kids hungry? You look hungry. I bet none of you have had a bite since breakfast. You know what, why don't I just go make some sandwiches," she's already up and heading for the kitchen before any of them can even open their mouths to say a word, let alone actually answer her.

Well. No baby pictures, degrading nicknames, or barrage of snoopy questions, so he'll call that a win. "Come on," he says, and leads everybody through the sliding glass door.

He runs back inside and upstairs to grab his radio while everyone is in the backyard, taking their shoes off. "That all you want me to take off, big boy?" Richie waggles his eyebrows, and Stan puts his hand over Richie's face and pushes him away.

It's always weird at first getting back into it again after such a long time, and Bill nearly rolls his ankle while they shake the rust off. Ben picks it up the fastest, to the surprise of nobody more than Ben and the delight of Richie, his self-appointed teacher. "Dude!" Richie says when Ben lands a seat drop on the first try. "I think we got us a ringer here, ladies and germs."

Bill shows Mike how to do a basic tuck jump, and everybody kind of hovers around Beverly trying to teach her a million things and show off their coolest moves all at once, which she tolerates with better humor than any of them deserve, honestly. "Guys, guys!" she finally interrupts when Bill and Richie talk over each other trying to simultaneously show her how to back drop and front drop, and Eddie keeps yelling from the sidelines not to lock her wrists or shoulders, for god's sake, that's how people get bursitis. "I can only land on one side of my body at a time."

Stan rolls his eyes in total exasperation, hunting for a clearer signal with the radio antenna. "Seriously, would you guys give it a rest? I know you think you're helping, but you just sound like the monkey cage at the zoo."

"S-S-Sorry, Bev," Bill stammers. Behind him, Beverly mouths a silent 'thanks' and winks, and Stan looks away before his fingers get too sweaty to grip the slippery metal antenna.

Mom brings out a tray with lemonade and a plate of peanut butter and strawberry jelly sandwiches, some just jelly for Eddie, whose mother insists he's allergic to peanuts (and shellfish and honey and MSG and bananas and...). "Thank you, M-Mrs. Uris," Bill says.

"Yeah, thanks, Mrs. U!" Richie mumbles through a giant wad of bread and peanut butter.

"Don't talk with your mouth full, Richard," she scolds automatically, fondly, for what is probably the eight thousandth time. "Well, you all have fun. And be careful," she eyes the trampoline with open dislike. "I don't want anybody breaking their neck on that thing."

"Yes, ma'am," he and Eddie and Bill and Richie chorus.

Mike watches her disappear back inside. "Your mom's really nice," he says quietly, then looks away and takes a bite of his sandwich.

Stan rolls his glass between his hands, staring at the back of Mike's head like it will open up and reveal his secrets. There's something very...contained about Mike, something pensive. Sad, maybe. He seems like the kind of person his bubbe would call an 'old soul'.

Richie barely gets done guzzling lemonade and choking down his last bite before he's back on the trampoline. "All right, assholes, prepare to be amazed!"

Oh good lord. "Richie, don't do anything stupid," Stan warns, as though that's ever stopped him before. Hope springs eternal.

"Come on, I got this," Richie bounces higher and higher. "Have a little faith."

Stan has faith, all right...in his complete inability to do a back flip. "I really don't think this is a good idea," Eddie says. "Over 100,000 injuries happen every year on trampolines, a-and one in two hundred of those results in permanent brain damage. Brain damage! Are you listening to me?"

Richie's hopping on one foot now like a shorter, dorkier version of Daniel-san, which is saying a lot. "Yeah, yeah. You ladies ready to have your panties dropped?"

Bill stands up like he's about to tackle Richie or maybe catch him when he falls on his head. "Richie -- "

"Gymkata, motherfuckers!" Richie yells, and flails his way through a whole three-quarters of a back flip, then flops onto his stomach so hard, Stan hears the air rush out of him.

He isn't dead and nothing looks broken, so they respond in the only reasonable way, which is to break into polite golf applause.

"W-Wow," Bill says. "You really almost did it. I'm im-impressed."

"Ah fuck," Richie wheezes, writhes on his side. "Oh, fuck me."

"I'm n-not that impressed," Bill says, and Richie flips him off.

Bev walks over and offers him a hand. "Come on, Michaelangelo, let's drag your ninja skills over here," she says, and she and Eddie help him down to sprawl onto the grass, groaning.

Things settle down a little after that, because really, there's too many of them to all be on at once, and nobody actually wants to break their neck. It's calm enough Stan feels okay practicing his spins, jumping as high as he dares, arms overhead and toes pointed. He's been trying to land a decent triple since last summer.

"You make that look so easy," Beverly says, bouncing somewhere nearby.

He manages a wobbly two-and-two-thirds, slips on the landing. "Right," he snorts.

"You do. When you do it, it looks...graceful," she smiles, shakes her head. "Sorry, that sounds weird."

He looks at her, and smiles, too. "No, that's, um, thanks," he says, which only sort of qualifies as an English sentence, and Bev attempts a spin of her own. It's clumsy and awkward, and when she lands, her feet shoot out from under her. He makes a grab for her, but she's already falling. "Shit! Are you okay?"

"Yeah," Beverly laughs, just sitting there on her knees and getting jostled around. She doesn't seem to care at all that she isn't very good at this. She's just enjoying herself.

He admires that. He envies that.

On the radio, the drums and funky synth that open _Material Girl_ start to play, and a giddy, electric rush surges up his spine. Madonna is his second all-time favorite (only below David Bowie, of whom he owns every album, four posters, and a Jareth Halloween costume that his dad has put the kibosh on for two years running), it's summer, he's surrounded by friends, and he _threw rocks at Henry Bowers today_.

The world has gone crazy, and obviously he has, too.

Stan grabs Bev by the hands before he can think about it, pulls her onto her feet to dance. With him. Shit, he's never danced with a girl before, but here he is and here they are. Beverly grins, crooked, wide open, and hangs on tight while they jump around like maniacs, idiots, laughing too hard to catch a breath. And then Ben's there dancing with them, some unholy collision of jazz hands and the running man, and Eddie, too, flailing so wildly his t-shirt is coming loose from his ridiculous fanny packs. Richie's doing dumb _Flash Dance_ poses while Bill and Mike try to double-bounce him as high as they can, but mostly everybody's just knocking into each other, and they're all laughing and smiling and together.

By the time the song ends, they're all lying collapsed on the trampoline, giggling and sweaty and out of breath. Stan looks around at everyone, the casual way Bill has his head leaned against Mike's side, Richie and Eddie and Ben trying to figure out how to three-way thumb wrestle and Bev sitting up to call next, bare knee grazing Stan's hip, and everything feels...he doesn't have any other word for it except _right_. It feels right, even though that doesn't make any sense.

Nothing really makes sense right now. And don't get him wrong -- his life has been upended into something bizarre and insane and terrifying he doesn't recognize or understand, and he feels like he can't even trust himself anymore, he's completely out of control, and he minds, okay? He minds like hell.

But here, like this, maybe he minds a little less.

Maybe it even seems a little worth it.

Maybe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, we really spelled the turtle's name 'Michaelangelo' with an extra A back in the 80s. And _Gymkata_ is a movie that truly must be seen to be believed, and Richie would doubtlessly have watched until the tape wore out.


	4. You Might Think

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie, Eddie, and Beverly do some heavy-lifting and bonding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, I'm alive and still working on this! Yeah! Here, have this giant-ass chapter, which may or may not contain a teeny tiny AU _Stranger Things_ cameo. *whistles innocently*

**You Might Think**

_but I think that you're wild  
when you flash that fragile smile_

"Come on, you have to admit, the fight with the giant scorpion was pretty badass," Eddie says. 

Richie does not have to admit any such thing, any more than he has to admit that yeah, it was actually really fucking sad when the ant died. He already watched the goddamn movie -- what more does Eddie want from him? 

Stupid curfew. Stupid sold-out Monday _Batman_ matinee. 

They're wheeling their bikes to the video store, because it's Wednesday and Eddie's mom doesn't know that the boring-ass youth group she makes him go to got canceled for summer ( _because of the disappearances_ , but nobody ever says that out loud), so they're free men. 

Free men who are in the market for pizza and a two-day rental of _48 Hrs_. 

"And we're not getting _48 Hrs._ again," Eddie says. 

Sacrilege! Betrayal! "Uh, says you," Richie bounces his bike up over the curb. There's no rack outside Movies 4 U, so they have to lean them against the building (or dump them on the sidewalk, which is what Richie does). "It's my pick! We already saw your dumb movie this week. And what the hell do you have against _48 Hrs._? It's a comedy classic!" 

Eddie throws his hands up. "We've already rented it fifty fucking times!" 

"No way," Richie scoffs. It's been a modest ten times (this year...so far). "And anyway, that's totally beside the point." 

"How is that not the point?" Eddie squawks. Some people just don't appreciate art. Richie shakes his head, and a familiar flash of auburn catches his eye through the window next door. "I swear to god, if I have to listen to Eddie Murphy's stupid donkey laugh one more time, my face is gonna melt off --" 

"Hey, is that Bev?" Richie interrupts. 

It's her, all right. No mistaking that curly red mop. She's at the laundromat, slouched in one of the ugly orange plastic chairs up front and looking bored as hell. The giant picture window frames her like a goddamn painting or something. Does she do shit like this on purpose? It's got to be on purpose. Nobody could look that cool without trying. 

Eddie bites his lips like he always does when he's thinking. "Maybe we should say hi." 

The laundromat looks deserted except for Bev and about as fun as licking stamps. It doesn't take a genius to guess she might appreciate some company (even theirs). "I say, old chap, what a smashing idea," he says in his Sherlock Holmes Voice. "Come along now, Edward Spaghedward, the game is afoot! Pip pip and tally ho!" 

"Do _not_ call me that," Eddie snaps. "And for the love of god, don't do the British guy at her, I'm serious. Richie? Richie!" 

Beverly doesn't notice them walk in, staring blankly at a load of towels tumbling around and around in a dryer. Usually he'd show off his master ninja skills and sneak up on her, but everybody's a little tense right now, what with the, you know, dead kids, and he doesn't want her to freak out and start screaming. Or punch him in the 'nads, which was a shit-ton more likely. 

He strikes a moody Sam Spade detective pose instead. "What's a classy dame like you doing in a lousy gin joint like this?" 

She looks up, startled, then grins when she sees it's them. "Working on my water ballet routine, obviously." 

There's a joke in there about offering to judge the wet tutu contest, but Eddie cuts him off. "Hi, Beverly," he says shyly. You'd think every girl was armed with a chainsaw and the thirst for virgin's blood from the way he acts around them. 

"Hey, Eddie," she says, just a little softer, a little sweeter. There are some real perks to being cute that Eddie doesn't appreciate enough. "What are you guys doing here?" she raises a sly eyebrow at Richie. "Are you stalking me now?" 

"Oh yeah, big time. I've got a shrine in my closet and everything. In fact, I'm actually here to steal some of your clothes for the life-size mannequin, you know, add some realism to the display," he nudges Eddie. "That, and the Edster here can never pass up a good fluff and fold, am I right?" 

The sheer disgust on Eddie's face is priceless, a Kodak moment if he ever saw one. "Shut up, Richie!" he hisses, like a tiny angry mongoose with fanny packs. He turns wide-eyed to Beverly. "We were just getting a movie, I swear." 

She smiles. "Don't worry, I'd never lump you in with this degenerate." 

"Hey, I resemble that remark," Richie says. 

"You could come along and watch the movie, too," Eddie says suddenly, and Richie looks at him in surprise. "If you wanted." 

Bev looks pretty surprised herself. "Um, yeah, I'd totally like to," she sighs, kicks the empty laundry basket at her feet. "It's just I have two loads going, and then I still have to dry them. Everything takes forever with these piece of shit machines." 

"So?" Richie shrugs, and pushes his glasses back up his nose (thank you, Henry Bowers, for shoving him face-first into a locker; the black eye healed, but his frames are still bent to shit). "Save a couple quarters and dry 'em at my house. Problem solved." 

"Really?" she asks, like he just offered her the use of his private jet or the Taj Mahal or something. 

Dude, it's a dryer, not the family jewels (though he could probably be persuaded to loan those out, too). "Well, in some cultures it'd mean we're married, but sure, what the hell," Richie clasps his hands and bats his eyelashes, puts on his worst Southern Belle Voice. "Ah always dreamt Ah'd be a June bride." 

"They do drive-through divorces in Las Vegas," Eddie raises his hands, palms out. "I'm just saying." 

Beverly whistles. "Wow, a wife _and_ a trip to Nevada. You guys really go all out." 

"We're getting pizza, too," Richie says. 

"Well, now that seals the deal," Bev smiles, brushes her hair out of her eyes. "I mean, if you guys don't mind waiting around 'til these loads finish?" 

There's a joke in there, too, about loads and finishing, but this time Richie cuts himself off. Even he knows there's a difference between saying gross shit to the guys or about Eddie's mom that she'll never hear and saying gross shit to a real live girl who's looking you right in the face, a girl who's been decent to you and that people probably (definitely) say gross shit to all the time. 

"Goody, we can catch up on girl talk," Richie says instead, and squeezes onto the slippery plastic seat with her, metal legs shrieking against the tile floor. Beverly shifts over for him with something suspiciously close to a giggle, and he settles in, flips imaginary hair over his shoulder. "Oh my god, like, Keanu is such a babe and a half. He was, like, soooo dreamy in _Bill And Ted_. Don't you think he's super dreamy, Eddie?" 

"I think you're an idiot," Eddie crosses his arms. 

Yeah, well, some people think the earth is flat and Debbie Gibson is cool. People are wrong about all kinds of stuff. "Hey, pull up some chair, why don'tcha," Richie scoots further into Bev to clear some free space, which is like three inches, sure, but it's the thought that counts. "Join the party." 

"There isn't room, dummy," Eddie says. "I'm not a fucking Polly Pocket." 

Debatable. "Plenty of room for you right here," Richie pats his lap, and waggles his eyebrows. "Best seat in the house." 

Eddie gives him the king of are-you-kidding-me looks. "I'd rather sit on the filthy, disgusting floor and catch scabies, thanks." 

"It's okay if you don't want to. I mean, if you don't think you're man enough to handle it," Richie leans back, fingers laced behind his head. "This much beefcake is pretty intimidating." 

Steam is practically coming out of Eddie's ears. "Can't handle -- " his eyes dart over to Bev, then he shuts his mouth with a clack, squares his jaw. "You know what, fine," and before Richie can say a word, the little fucking maniac hops aboard. 

Well. That is...well. 

For a second, he's genuinely and completely dumbfounded. It must show on his face, because when Eddie looks back at him, he smirks. 

So that's how it's gonna be. All right. Richie wipes the stupid look off his face, and does what he always does when he's backed himself into some ridiculous, dumbass situation: act like this is exactly what he meant to do. "So anyway," he tries to sound casual. Success rate is...you know, there's a sliding scale for these things. "Pizza, Marsh. What's your poison?" 

Beverly is biting her lip, probably to keep from laughing her ass off at what dipshits they are. "Uh, pretty much anything. I like mushrooms and olives a lot." 

"Yeuugh, mushrooms," Eddie scrunches up his nose. "They're literal fungi! It's like eating athlete's foot, o-or snails, since they're all slimy and rubbery and gross -- " his brain seems to catch up with his mouth, and he looks at Bev, who is definitely trying not to laugh now. "But olives are good. I like olives." 

Eddie Kaspbrak, silver-tongued devil. 

A car honks outside, and Beverly turns her head to look out the window. The afternoon light hits her hair like fire, glowing copper, and Eddie's staring at her, mouth open, equal parts fascination and panic. And maybe it's not the lovestruck way Ben stares at her, or Bill (or Stan a little bit once or twice when he didn't know anybody was looking), but it's some kind of struck, all right. 

Hail Molly, full of grace, blessed are you among Brat Packers. 

Look, he gets it. She's the only girl in the sausage party that is the Losers Club, and even if they're getting used to that, there's still a real fucking novelty factor there. Sometimes it just hits you that yeah, as well as funny and reasonably cool, she is in fact a girl. 

And pretty. You don't have to be doodling her name in hearts all over your notebook to admit that. She's pretty, okay. No shit she is. Noticing doesn't mean dick except you aren't blind or a complete liar. 

Eddie shifts, sliding back a little from his rigid perch on the edge of Richie's knees, and Richie is suddenly very aware of how they're all squashed together in this 1970s egg-shaped stackable monstrosity, Beverly's thigh pressed along his, the sticky heat of Eddie's bare leg draped over. How the sloping seat has her sort of wedged against him, and if he put his right arm down now, there wouldn't be anywhere to go except around her, and how he can smell cherry cola lip gloss and Eddie's Johnson & Johnson baby shampoo, feel him breathing, his quick inhale when Bev turns back around and he looks away. 

Richie swallows. 

A washing machine buzzer cuts through the tension. "That's me," Beverly says, and slithers out from their tangle of legs and raging hormones. 

Which just leaves them, two dudes in a chair. One dude sitting on another dude's lap. 

As you do. 

"Here, I'll help," Eddie scrambles off him like a starter pistol just shot. 

Richie's brain lags pathetically behind. If this actually was a race, he'd still be fumbling with his jockstrap in the locker room. He clears his throat. "Uh, yeah, me, too." 

He'll say it again: puberty. It's a wild fucking ride. 

The three of them haul out approximately six million pounds of wet sheets and blankets, which sucks donkey balls, but does get rid of that semi he totally hadn't popped (whatever, don't judge him -- he's thirteen, literally anything can give him wood). 

"Jesus H., Marsh, are you smuggling gold bars in here or what?" Richie grunts, wrestling with a bedspread that might actually be heavier than Eddie. 

"Oh no, you've discovered the secret of my vast wealth," she deadpans, and twirls her wrists in the most sarcastic ta-da gesture he's ever seen. Stan would be impressed and / or jealous. 

"Less whining, more helping," Eddie wheezes. He's already one puff deep on his inhaler and rocketing toward the next. 

"Psh, like I can't do both." 

They pile wet laundry in one basket and dry into another, and Eddie and Bev both blush when he accidentally grabs a pair of panties with little faded pink rosebuds. "Sorry," she mutters, stuffs them underneath some towels, and Eddie mumbles something that's barely vowel sounds, let alone words. 

Whatever. Richie's lived in a house of women way too long to get worked up over any underwear that isn't occupied. "Come on, let's blow this popsicle stand," he grabs the wet basket without thinking, and just about squirts blood out of his eyeballs trying to lift it. "Fuuuck!" 

Eddie does worried jazz hands. "Stop! You're gonna rupture a disk!" 

"You have that all right?" Beverly sounds doubtful. 

Oh god, he can taste organs. Maybe Cock-Knocker had been right about pull-ups and the importance of the presidential fitness test. "I got it, I got it," he huffs, only staggering around wildly a little bit. 

"No, he doesn't," Eddie snaps, and yanks one of the handles away. "Gimme that before you get a hernia, idiot! Do you _want_ your intestines to shoot into your balls?" 

Not...especially? "Gee, thanks, Doogie Howser," Richie jokes, yet in no way tries to shake him loose. 

Things veer into Keystone Cops territory when he and Eddie try to navigate a joint clothes basket, a door, and a mutual lack of coordination or ability to communicate. Beverly was smart enough to get out first, and calmly watches them embarrass themselves from the sidewalk. "Hey, do you guys mind if I drop this stuff off home?" she jostles the dry basket propped on her hip. "You know, less stuff to drag around. It'll only take a minute, I promise." 

"As you will, m'lady!" Richie bows as low as he can without dumping wet laundry on the ground. "A thousand years we shall await thy return, fair maiden, if thou bidst us!" 

She shakes her head. "You are such a weirdo sometimes," she says, and ruffles his hair. Tingles shoot all over his scalp like lightning. 

"Sometimes?" Eddie says pointedly. 

"Sure. He's asleep part of the time, right?" Beverly ruffles his hair, too. If Richie tried that, he'd rip his hand off and slap him with it, but Eddie doesn't even grumble. He just ducks his head and grins, sneaks a look up at her with big dopey eyes. 

Pretty In Pink strikes again. 

"Time me!" she yells back to them. They watch her run across the street to the old crappy brick apartment complex where she lives, dodging around a clump of little kids on the steps, who are playing with jacks or marbles or some other dumb 1950s bullshit. 

"So," Richie says finally. "That, uh, ball thing. Is that really what a hernia is?" 

"Oh my god," Eddie groans. 

To get to her place, Bev has to pass an apartment with its door open and some burnouts hanging around outside, smoking and drinking beer. Real Ted Nugent, shitty faded eagle tattoo, walking ashtray, Monday morning at the dive bar, beer gut and BO dirtbags. He's familiar with the type -- Mom's dated enough of them. _Is_ dating one. 

One dirtbag says something to her, and tries to grab her arm. Beverly slips past him like he doesn't exist, unlocks her door and disappears inside. "Creeps," Eddie mutters. 

"Yeah," Richie agrees flatly. The dirtbags are all laughing now. Ha ha, so funny. 

So fucking funny. 

A few minutes later, Bev comes jogging around from the back of her building. What do you know, looks like her fire escape doubles as a creep escape. "How'd I do?" she pants, smiling like nothing happened. 

He's familiar with that, too. Sometimes when shitty stuff happens, you just don't want to deal with people feeling bad for you, or even, like, pissed off on your behalf. Sometimes you just want to move the fuck on, you know? 

He knows Eddie gets it, too, even if it takes him an extra second to blink and shake off his angry frown. He checks his watch. "Uh, three minutes, forty-two seconds." 

"Damn, not my best time," she says. "Well, thanks for waiting." 

"It was touch and go there for awhile, I'm not gonna lie to you," Richie says. "We thought about hocking your sheets and going on the run to Canada, but the laundry black market is so unpredictable these days, and then there'd be all that maple syrup to deal with." 

"Not to mention the hockey and widespread courtesy," Beverly adds, straight-faced. 

"Right? Who needs that hassle," Richie hitches up his side of the basket. "All right, heave ho, Spaghetti Man! Time's a-wastin'!" 

Eddie's glare is murderous. "I will fucking neck-punch you, I am not even kidding." 

Bev holds the door of Movies 4 U for them while they squeeze through. The good news is they've upgraded from Keystone Cops to Abbott and Costello. The bad news is, well, literally everything else about that. "Hey, Steve," Richie calls to the clerk when they finally squeeze inside. His elbow is scraped up and bleeding, and Eddie's grumbling, rubbing his bruised hipbone through his short-shorts. 

" _48 Hrs._ is out 'til tomorrow," Steve doesn't even glance up from his issue of Sports Illustrated, floppy hair falling in a perfect swoop over his forehead. 

Okay, so maybe he's rented it a time or two too many. 

Beverly raises her eyebrows, amused. "Come here a lot?" 

"I'm known in the area," Richie says. He's pretty much here or at the arcade whenever there's nobody to hang around with, because there's pretty much dick to do by himself in Derry and he pretty much hates Kenny's guts, who's pretty much moved in since he got canned from his last job and pretty much hates Richie right back. 

You know. Pretty much. 

Steve finally looks up -- probably to get a load of whatever girl would willingly be seen in public with him or Eddie -- and does a double-take at the laundry basket. "Uh, what the hell?" 

"It's an emergency," is all Richie says, and plunges deeper into the shelves, dragging Eddie along by the basket. Which isn't as dirty as it sounds. 

Beverly trails after, looking around. "So what movie did you guys have in mind?" 

"If you say _Another 48 Hrs._ , I actually will punch you in the throat," Eddie says. 

Such hostility. He'd only been, like, casually considering it. Richie scans the new release section. " _Die Hard_?" it came out like three months ago and they've already watched it, but whatever. 

"Uh uh, it's out," Eddie says. Sure enough there's just the empty cardboard sleeve, no plastic boxes with the actual tapes behind it. 

"Shit," Richie sucks his teeth, thinking. "Uh, _Night Of The Demons_?" 

"No! No creepy stuff," Eddie ping-pongs a jittery glance between Bev and him, mouth pulled down into a tight, anxious line. "Things are creepy enough right now." 

Right. Missing kids, alleged clowns and shit. "Jeez, make it easy on me, why don't you," Richie notices Beverly drifting aimlessly, sliding a fingertip along the shelf lip. "Hey, how about we get something you want?" 

She looks up in surprise. "You want me to choose?" 

"Sure. I mean, obviously you have good taste. You're hanging out with us, aren't you? We could get -- " Richie checks the titles again. Shit, what do girls like? "I don't know, _Mystic Pizza_ or something." 

"Or _Dirty Dancing_ ," Eddie suggests, way too eager. The little jerk's dying for an excuse to make him watch that shit again. It had 'dirty' in the title, okay? Anybody could make that mistake. And okay, maybe they spent two weeks last summer trying to recreate the lift on Stan's trampoline until Bill fell off and sprained his wrist, but that's, like, barely relevant. 

One corner of Beverly's mouth twitches. "Or _Predator_?" she suggests. 

Like he said: obvious good taste. Richie grins at Eddie. "You heard the lady." 

They grab the movie from action-adventure (don't think he doesn't spot Eddie's longing stare at the romance section), then it's up to the counter. "Oh crap, this is rated R, isn't it? I didn't even think," Beverly says. "We can pick something else." 

"No sweat," he says. "They have my mom's permission on file, so I can get whatever." 

"Yeah, she doesn't care if he warps his mind," Eddie says. 

"You say 'warp', I say 'expand'," Richie slaps the tape down. "Ring me up, my good fellow!" 

Steve gives it and him a bored look. "What, no Eddie Murphy? Won't you have to turn in your secret fan club decoder ring or something?" 

Why's everybody busting his balls about this today? The guy's a freaking comedic genius. What, he's not supposed to appreciate that? "Nah, I hid it from the repo squad down your pants. Nobody's ever gonna find it there," he puts his hand out for a high five. "Ohhh!" 

Eddie ignores him, and Beverly just rolls her eyes. Everybody's a critic. "Wow, hilarious. You should write that down in your diary tonight," Steve rings them up. "All right, that'll be $2.50, it's due back Friday, blah blah blah. You know the drill." 

Their last stop is Rocco's Pizzeria, one street up and two over. The second the door swings shut, Richie closes his eyes and breathes deep. Man, if there's a better smell than burnt cheese and tomato sauce, he hasn't found it yet. 

( _cherry cola and peaches and Johnson & Johnson, cheap coin-dispenser laundry detergent, that sweet skin smell underneath_) 

"Hello, Earth to Richie! You wanna keep walking, or are we just planning to starve?" Eddie harps. "Because hypoglycemia is actually a really serious condition -- " 

"Yeah, yeah, I got it," Richie cuts off the medical report. "Damn, can't a man just enjoy the ambiance?" 

Eddie looks around at the grimy wood paneling, ancient beer-stained carpet, and makes a disgruntled face. "What ambiance?" he mutters. 

After some controversy over whether Richie has in fact eaten a vegetable this week (duh, of course he has; Doritos are made of corn), they order a large supreme pizza. "No mushrooms," Beverly adds with a wink at Eddie, who immediately drops his side of the laundry basket. 

"FUCK, ow!" Richie hops and grabs his shin. "What the hell, numb nuts! You trying to goddamn kneecap me here?" the gray-haired old biddy working the register sucks in a scandalized breath, and he looks up. "Uh...that's, er, eleven bucks, right?" 

They stake out the Pac-Man arcade table to wait. "Oh, hey, how much do I owe you?" Bev asks, and climbs onto a stool. 

"Huh?" Richie's busy digging out a quarter. Fucking cargo pockets. 

"For the pizza and stuff." 

He shrugs it off. "Don't worry about it. My dad sent me a birthday check this week, so I'm rolling in dough right now." 

"Oh. Well, um...thanks," she fiddles with the key around her neck. "So when was your birthday?" 

"March," he sees the surprise flash across her face, the pity that chases its heels, and feels that weird twist in his gut. Okay, so he has a kind of shitty dad. Big whoop. Things are rough all over, Ponyboy. He fixes his glasses again (seriously, screw Henry Bowers), and clears his throat. "Hey, Eddie, ready to get your ass kicked? Bet you a scoop of tin roof I beat your score by at least 5,000." 

"In your dreams," Eddie scoffs. If he feels sorry for him, too, he knows better than to make a thing out of it. "Make it two scoops, and you're on." 

The joint's a total ghost town except for them, so there's not exactly a line in the kitchen. They barely make it through one and a half games before the old lady's yelling that their pizza is ready. "I win!" Richie jumps up, fists pumping. "Over 5,000! What'd I tell you?" 

"No way, that doesn't count! I didn't even get to finish!" Eddie complains. 

"Who said anything about finishing?" Richie smirks. "I just said I'd beat your score. Which I did." 

Eddie goes purple around the edges. "You are such a giant dick." 

"What's that? I've got a giant dick? Thanks for noticing." 

"Girls, girls, you're both pretty," Beverly interrupts. "Now can we maybe get on with our lives?" 

It's a fifteen minute walk back to Richie's house, eight if you hurry. They make it in twenty, Eddie and Beverly on either side of his bike, balancing the laundry basket and movie on the seat between them, while Richie rides in looping circles around them with the pizza box on his handlebars. "You're gonna crash," Eddie says. "Or drop the pizza. Or both." 

"Oh come on, that happened one time," Richie gripes. It was a pretty memorable time -- turns out pepperoni grease burns like a motherfucker in open wounds, and pizza sauce looks enough like blood to make any and all nearby hypochondriacs think you're dying and freak the fuck out (his neighbor, old man Hersh, probably still has heart palpitations from Eddie pounding on his door, screaming _call 911 oh god he's hemorrhaging_ ). 

He doesn't bother getting his key out. The door isn't locked. It's never locked unless nobody is home, and Denise's Pinto is sitting in the driveway, continuing its slow disintegration into a pile of rust and mummified french fries. Richie ditches his bike in its usual spot in the overgrown yard, holds the door open. "After you," he says. "Mi casa es su casa." 

Bev, Eddie, and the basket squeeze through with minor incident, and he kicks the door shut. Denise is in the kitchen, phone glued to her ear and foot propped up on their ugly '70s brass and glass dining table, or more accurately old-mail-ashtray-and-empty-beer-bottle table. She's tipped back on one of the rickety matching chairs, all wiggly joints and ripped vinyl, painting her toenails neon pink to match her lipstick. 

He ducks in to snag some drinks. "Hey," he opens the fridge, scoops up three cans of Orange Slice. "Where's Mom?" 

Denise rolls her eyes, giant lime green plastic triangle earrings clacking. "Guess." 

Bar. Right. It's always five o'clock somewhere. He jostles the pizza box open one-handed, offers it to her. "Is that your new lover boy?" he starts making obnoxious kissing noises. "Hi, lover boy!" 

"Shut up, dickhead," she grabs a slice, pushes him away with her other foot. Her chair wobbles ominously. "No, not you, Mark. Why would I tell you to shut up? You weren't even saying anything. Jesus. I'm talking to my twerp brother." 

"Bye, lover boy!" he yells, and heads back out to Eddie and Bev in the living room. "Come on, Marsh, we'll give you the nickel tour." 

Richie leads them down the hallway, and provides a running commentary on rooms as they pass by. Bathroom, AKA the war zone. The hagfish's room, AKA where dreams go to die. His room, AKA either the coolest place in the house or, if you listen to Eddie, a disgusting pit of sweat socks, petrified Ding-Dongs, and probably the Black Plague. 

Total bullshit. He's never left an unfinished Ding-Dong in his life. 

At the end of the hall is the only closed door, and Richie throws it open with a flourish (well, the best he can manage while juggling a pizza and three soda cans). "Last but not least, the Danger Room!" 

Or, you know, his basement. It's nothing fancy, bare drywall and exposed pipes and ancient orange shag carpet you can still feel the cement through, the eternal haze of dust and Cheeto funk, but there's a big pull-out couch, a secondhand TV and VCR, and zero adult supervision. What more do you want? 

Richie tosses the pizza box onto the middle couch cushion, waves at a doorway with a tacky flowered curtain strung up. "Laundry's through here." 

It's tight quarters for three people, and about two people too many for the actual job, but they make it work, even if Eddie gets his head tangled in the curtain at one point and Bev accidentally elbows Richie's glasses half off his face. 

"Shit! Sorry," she hooks the arm of his glasses back over his ear, cups his cheekbone where she hit him. "Are you okay?" 

His head buzzes like it's full of bees, and his heart is going ba-bump, ba-bump in his ears. "Uh huh," he says. 

Dryer locked and loaded, Eddie and Beverly get situated on the couch while he coaxes _Predator_ into the elderly toploader VCR and turns on the TV. That weird kids show is on, the one with the bleachers and the host lady who looks like a church mom. Seems like it's always on lately...like, _all_ the time. Last night Kenny passed out in front of the TV, and when Richie got up for a midnight bologna sandwich, there it was. He doesn't get it. Why the fuck would anybody run a kids show in the middle of the night? Who do they think is watching? 

"You ready, Rich?" Eddie prompts. 

Church Mom drones on about swimming or something, learning how to float and...the sewer? What the actual hell. Richie shakes his head, feels like he's climbing out of a hole. "Are you kidding? I was born ready," he flips over to channel three and the waiting blue screen. 

There's no remote, so he has to hit play and scramble back to the couch before it starts. Bev's sitting in the middle, pizza balanced on her lap, and he reaches blindly for a slice. He doesn't want to miss a single second of the Schwarzenegger experience, not even the FBI warning. 

From the opening shot of the Predator's ship cruising through space, he's sucked in. It doesn't matter how many times he's already seen it (twice with Bill, once with Bill, Eddie, and Stan), it's still just as awesome. They cram lukewarm pizza into their faces and watch badass commandos get stalked by an even more badass alien through the Central American jungle. "Whoa," Beverly says at the big reveal when the mask finally comes off. 

_You're one ugly motherfucker_ , he mouths the line along with Arnie. The Predator flexes its mandibles and roars, and the hair stands up all over Richie's body. 

Fuck church. This shit right here...this is all the religion he needs. 

When the credits roll, Bev gets up to empty the dryer while he and Eddie dissect the finer plot elements. "Do you think mud would really block heat vision like that?" Eddie asks. 

"Oh yeah, totally," Richie says. "I heard it's like a real army tactic." 

Eddie pulls a face. "Bullshit. No way." 

"Uh, yes way," Richie says. "It's science, dude." 

"What do you mean, it's science? What do you know about science? You told me that if a dumb monkey eats a smart monkey's brain, it would get smarter." 

Gonna harp on that one forever, isn't he. "Okay, one: that was in second grade," Richie ticks it off on his fingers. "And two: I still say you have no definite proof it wouldn't." 

Eddie stares at him, half-disbelief, half-amazement, all annoyed. "How the hell do you get straight A's?" 

"Sheer genius, my friend," Richie claps a hand on his shoulder, and Eddie shoves him away. "Sheer goddamn genius." 

The dryer door shuts, and Beverly reappears, ducking under the curtain. "So what I don't get is why the Predator couldn't see his eyes," she sits on the floor between their dangling feet, criss-cross applesauce, and speaking of eyes, his drop to where her dark blue flowery dress rides up over black shorts, pale thighs. He looks away quickly, catches Eddie doing the same. "I mean, eyeballs have body heat, right? And he had them open like the whole time. Wouldn't they show up?" 

Richie opens his mouth, but Eddie cuts him off. "Do not even try to suggest 'eye mud'." 

It could have been, like, a very thin layer. 

Bev leans against the edge of the couch, chin on her hands. "Hey, thanks again for inviting me," she smiles, soft and shy. "It's been nice getting to hang out with you guys." 

"We like hanging out with you, too," Eddie says, and flushes, slides a look at Richie. "Right?" 

"Sure, yeah," Richie rubs his neck, weirdly flustered. Stupid tag on his shirt must be scratching him. "So, uh, you guys wanna continue this lovefest and go see _Batman_ this weekend or something?" 

Eddie shakes his head. "I can't. My mom wants to visit my aunts in New Hampshire." 

"Ugh, barf-o-rama," Richie winces. All three of Eddie's aunts are just like his mom, except older and even more batshit, if that's actually possible. "That blows." 

"I guess," a shadow flickers across Eddie's face, and he fidgets with one of his fanny packs. "Honestly I'm kind of relieved to go somewhere normal right now," he glances up, mouth tight. "Safe, you know." 

"Yeah," Beverly says. 

"I'm so fucking sick of being scared all the time," Eddie bursts out, zipping and unzipping that fanny pack over and over and over. His hands are shaking. "I just want to walk down the street or get up to piss at night, and not wonder if something's there waiting for me." 

"I know what you mean," Bev admits quietly. "I hate being alone in the apartment now. My neighbor says I can stay with her when my dad's at work, but I can't just...live at her place, and my dad is working basically every single night, so yeah," she traces the ugly faded flower pattern on the couch, staring down. "I'm pretty much on my own." 

_Fuck that,_ Richie thinks. "Well, just come over here then," he says. 

Her forehead crinkles. "What?" 

"I mean, if you need someplace to hang out, I have it on pretty good authority that this is a place," he says. "So, you know, you can hang out." 

Look, maybe he hasn't seen any ghosts or blood-geysering sinks or fucking demon clowns or whatever (maybe he doesn't know if he even really believes in all that, not exactly), but he knows something fucked up is going on in Derry, and he knows nobody else is gonna do shit for them, so they have to take care of themselves. 

Losers stick together. 

Beverly's eyebrows lift. "And your mom is gonna be totally cool with some girl showing up your house all the time?" her tone turns bitter. "A girl like me?" 

He snorts. Denise has been screwing any guy with a car and a pulse since eighth grade, and his mom never gave a shit about that. Why would she give a shit if Bev does? "She won't care, trust me," he says. He'll be surprised if she even notices. 

"You can come to my house, too," Eddie offers. "My mom would 100% care, so it'd all have to be secret, but you still can," he swallows. "I mean, if you want." 

"See?" Richie says. "That's two places now, _and_ if you play your cards right, you could get to see Mrs. K's head spin around." 

Beverly studies them like she's trying to figure out what the punchline is. "Why are you guys being so nice to me?" she finally asks. 

'Why the fuck wouldn't they be' is the better question. Richie shrugs. "Well, that's what friends do." 

She bites her lip. "Friends, huh?" 

It's on the tip of his tongue to crack a joke -- all this, like, emotional shit gives him hives -- but for once, he swallows it. "Yeah," he says. "Friends." 

"Friends," Eddie chimes in. 

Bev's eyes look suspiciously bright. She blinks, and nods slowly, smiles. "Okay," she says. "I can do that." 

Richie grins. "Good, because you're stuck with us now, Marsh," he says, and gives her shoulder a playful nudge with his knee. 

She laughs and pushes him back, hair falling in her eyes. "Is that a promise or a threat?" her smile veers crooked, challenging, and if his stomach jumps a little, so what. Stomachs do things. You can't control that shit. 

"Both, kind of," Eddie says. 

"Duly noted," she reaches out to tilt Eddie's wrist so she can read his watch, and he freezes, pink-cheeked, lips parted. Beverly sighs. "I should probably get going. Nancy -- my neighbor -- has a date tonight, and I'm supposed to babysit her daughter." 

"I should go, too," Eddie says. "Curfew's in an hour, and my mom will have a total psychological meltdown if I cut it too close." 

"How could you tell the difference?" Richie says. Eddie flips him off. 

Beverly grabs her basket, then they all plod upstairs. The house is empty except for them now -- Denise is long gone, out with whoever doing whatever (and / or also whoever). Mom and Kenny will be out 'til who the fuck even knows, Kenny ideally until the heat-death of the universe. 

Looks like tonight is gonna be another sexy three-way between him, a Marie Callender pot pie, and _Night Court_ reruns. 

In the meantime, the three of them stand in an awkward knot around his open front door. "Well," Bev says after a minute. "Thanks again for having me over." 

"Sure," Richie says. "Thanks for almost giving me a hernia with your fucking lead-lined sheets." 

"And thanks for not leaving me alone with this jerk," Eddie adds. 

Richie slips into his best Vito Corleone, eyes squinted, hands curled and fingertips pressed together like he's making tulip shadow puppets. "I invite you into my home, I shower you with pizza and Arnold Schwarzenegger, and this is how you repay my generosity?" 

Eddie rolls his eyes. "Bye, Richie." 

"Yeah, yeah, see you around, you little ingrate," Richie says. "You, too, Marsh." 

"Not if I see you first," Beverly winks, then jogs down his crumbling cement steps. "Later, guys." 

Hardy har. "That a promise or a threat?" Richie calls after her. 

She turns, walking backwards, and smirks. "What do you think?" 

He thinks she really probably is too cool to be hanging out with rejects like them, and if the world wasn't an unfair flaming garbage heap, she'd be the one sitting at the popular kids' table and getting voted Best Hair and shit instead of that preppy yuppie-larva snob Sally Mueller. 

Eddie stoops to grab his bike and right it, scrambles to catch up with Bev. In the distance, he hears him say: "Hey, I can help you carry that, if you want." 

"Oh, um, all right. Thanks," her reply is faint, getting fainter as they disappear down the street. "I thought you had to go home?" 

"Well, I mean, you don't live that far away -- " 

Eddie Spaghetti, you dirty old dog, you. Richie chuckles to himself, and closes the door. Oh man, his mom is going to have fucking kittens. 

It's dead silent in the house now it's just him, nothing but a clock ticking somewhere. He didn't even know they had a clock that ticked. He's pretty sure every house just comes with one. 

Silence presses in on him like a trash compacter, leaves his ears ringing. Richie goes and flips on the TV in the living room to fill the vacuum. Too early for _Jeopardy_ and _Wheel Of Fortune_ , but even shitty local news or whatever would be better than nothing. 

He and 'quiet' don't really get along. 'Quiet' is a little too close to 'alone'. 

Which he is. But...you know. 

That stupid kids show is still on. Close-up on Church Mom, staring right into the camera, and he actually takes a stumbling step back (away). "Are you ready to meet our very special friend?" Church Mom asks, and his whole body prickles. It feels like she's looking at him. He reaches for the controls along the bottom edge of the TV, and for a second, it really seems like her eyes follow him. "Are you ready to meet the clown?" 

Oh fuck that. Richie hits the up-channel button so fast, he jams his finger. Whoopi Goldberg's face fills the screen instead, the very tail end of _Burglar_ on HBO, and he breathes in relief. 

Jesus, like that show wasn't creepy enough already -- why not add some fucking clowns. And they seriously want kids to watch this shit? "I'll take Warping Future Generations for $200, Alex," he mutters. 

Sometimes he really wonders what the hell is wrong with people in this town. 

Richie heads to the kitchen to get another soda, feeling a little shaky, a lot like an idiot. What kind of total puss gets spooked by a kiddie show? Even if that kiddie show is...weird, like beyond freaky. Even if you're alone and nobody would ever know what happened to you. 

Even if seven kids have disappeared in just the last four months, and all your friends say there's a clown following them. 

Richie locks the door on his way by, then grabs a can of Old Milwaukee instead, even though it tastes like shit. He pops it open right there, sucks down the foam that immediately spills down his arm. Maybe he'll give Big Bill or Stan the Man a call, harass them awhile. Maybe he'll just hop on his bike and show up at one of their houses. Maybe he'll go knock on doors 'til Bev answers one and join the Babysitters Club. 

Maybe he'll throw a turkey pot pie in the microwave and drink shitty beer in the middle of his kitchen until his heartbeat slows down, his knees don't feel wobbly anymore, and he (almost) stops thinking about Church Mom's crazy Stepford Wife grin, the flick of her eyes trailing him when he moved. 

Clowns. Why the fuck does it have to be clowns?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The dumb monkey / smart monkey theory is a direct quote from one of my earliest real life Richies (I seem to collect them). And no, the mud thing doesn't work like that.
> 
> Also: My characterization of Richie's family situation in this fic comes from not only what Finn Wolfhard has said in interviews, but also an interview with Andy Muschietti, who describes each Loser as knowing a 'situation of despair' and Richie as being neglected at home (you can read it [here](http://bloody-disgusting.com/news/3446886/andy-muschietti-talks-holding-nothing-back-r-rated/), if you want). Never let it be said I don't bring receipts. ^_~

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of the [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject), which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * Constructive criticism
>   * “<3” as extra kudos
>   * Reader-reader interaction
> 

> 
> This author replies to comments (though sometimes slowly, ha ha). Note: If for any reason you don't want me to reply (hey, no judgment here), just sign your comment 'whisper', and I'll just silently appreciate you from afar.


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